


I am Part of All That I Have Met

by uwontfeelathing



Series: His and Mine are the Same [4]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Child Loss, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Early Mornings, F/M, Finally, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Honeymoon, Infant Death, Lazy Mornings, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, Morning Sex, Morning Sickness, Pregnancy, Sex, Shirbert, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwontfeelathing/pseuds/uwontfeelathing
Summary: *****Anne’s remarkable adolescence and young adulthood had given her so many unexpected and formative afternoons and evenings - afternoons and evenings which had knit together to form the woman she had become. But, after marrying the love of her life, Anne soon found that with womanhood came a certain fondness for mornings that would attend the rest of her life...*****This is my love-letter to the original Anne books by LM Montgomery - whose pages I have read and re-read over and over again, and which always bring me comfort, but which never, *ever* had anywhere near enough Shirbert-behind-closed-doors content for me. Give me ALL of the Domestic Shirbert, please and thank you. 😇😘This one-shot fuses Anne with an E, the Anne of Green Gables series of books, and the events of parts 1-3 of this series, His and Mine are the Same.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Series: His and Mine are the Same [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608142
Comments: 38
Kudos: 263
Collections: Anne With An E





	I am Part of All That I Have Met

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the events of the Anne book series fairly closely as far as major life-events for Anne and Gilbert. I have, however, taken liberties with certain things (i.e. Matthew doesn't die when Anne is a teenager because he is precious above all else; they get engaged and married YOUNG [see parts 1-3 of this series]). 
> 
> Please mind the tags. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this - I loved writing it for you!! xo

Anne’s remarkable adolescence and young adulthood had given her so many unexpected and formative afternoons and evenings -- the afternoon she pulled up to Green Gables for the very first time, sun shining, her hope in the future bright; the tea-time visit to what would become her closest friend in the world, her heart fluttering hopefully at the idea of having a confidante of her very own, her lips sealed closed with thick anxiety; the brilliant afternoon - the first on her own in the big (well, much bigger than Avonlea), bustling city of Charlottetown - where she found her thought-to-be-unrequited love mistaken - to be  _ very _ much requited, after all; the afternoon walks and evening  fêtes  spent on the arm of her beloved - a man who enjoyed and respected and truly knew and loved every part of her - in whose company she wore her belonging easily, as if it were her birthright; the dark-as-pitch evening, a lonely full moon above her, where she thought she had lost that love and belonging, only to find a ring on her finger and a promise of forever; and then that warm, weightless July afternoon, the scent of clover strung on the air like a garland, when she had joined her life-mate under an archway of woven vines and summer blossoms, vowing to love him every day of forever. 

These afternoons and evenings had knit together to form the woman she had become, but Anne soon found that with womanhood came a certain fondness for mornings that would attend the rest of her life. 

——

It started that morning - her very first as Mrs. Blythe. Anne was conscious of the changes around her before she had even opened her eyes - sensing the deep, slow breathing underneath her ear, the comforting weight of limbs pressed close, the sounds of birdsong set against the less-familiar sound of waves lapping against the rocky shore, and a new, undefinable feeling throughout her body - almost as though she had been taken apart, and put back together again with careful, gentle hands which had made her aware of each molecule of her physical being in an entirely new way. 

Thinking of the newness of her body had caused her lips to twitch upward at the corners, and then she had the sudden need to open her eyes - simultaneously afraid to chase away the delicious dream she had awoken inside of and determined to awaken herself to reality. 

After a moment of slow, measured breathing, she remembered just where she was -  _ who _ she was - and began to rouse slowly, so as not to disturb the chest her warm cheek was pressed against. She felt the soft pressure of her eyelashes against his bare skin, and memories of the night before lapped over her gently, like the tide coming in, as her eyes took in the tone and texture of his lean torso up-close.

The realization that he was not clothed made her realize suddenly that she, too, lay naked, pressed flush against him - legs against legs, her chest across his, his arm warm and weighty against her bare back. Anne had never slept without clothes before -  _ of course she hadn’t! _ \- and this realization caused the memories to come more quickly: a flood which threatened to drown her, bringing a burning blush to her cheeks. 

Slowly, Anne breathed in and out - willing herself calm - as she replayed the day before in reverse order. The memories started with hands and mouths and bodies pressed close, shaking and gasping and possessing. The blush that had flooded her moments before turned to a fire in her belly as she recalled the way Gilbert had looked down at her -- at the gentle, desperate, deliberate way he had made love to her. 

She recalled the moments before: being carried across the threshold of the home they were renting for the month before their voyage across the sea - Hester Grey’s old lavender cottage, situated near the rocky shore, surrounded by trees and a gorgeous garden plot, just outside of Avonlea; the dancing and well-wishes and tears and cake; the kiss, the rings, a chaste and achingly tender kiss, an exchange of vows unbreakable. Soon she was flushed all over with a ferocity of sensation that the memories had brought -- heat and warmth, joy and desire, the old and the new, borrowed and blue. 

_ And a silver six-pence in your shoe _ , she recalled Diana whispering, tears filling both of their eyes, as they had embraced one last time before Anne’s march down the aisle of apple trees and standing guests. 

She shifted her weight gently to lean up on one elbow - needing to look at Gilbert - at _her_ _husband_. As she studied his perfect, sleeping face - eyes closed, dark lashes touching his cheeks, breaths slow, lips parted slightly - Anne felt the overwhelming sensations concentrate once more into a molten pool of lust, starting in her stomach then traveling further down her body, pulsing into acute need. 

As though he could sense her sudden ache for his hands on her, Gilbert began to stir slowly, and, as she had, his lips were first to move, spreading slowly into a sleepy smile before his eyes fluttered open. When he found her gazing down at him, he flashed his teeth, eyes crinkling nearly shut as he grinned at her. 

His voice was an octave lower than usual - thick with sleep - and the sound of it made her insides clench hotly. 

“Good morning, Wife.” 

——

The morning she woke to find their bed empty, she sat up quickly. Had there been a call to assist the local doctor in the night? She had hoped he would last their first weeks together - their honeymoon, Ruby had called it, winking knowingly at Mrs. Lynde over Anne’s head (though Ruby herself had only been married the month before) as the women had gathered to make centerpieces for the wedding dinner party - without their needing to spend time apart. 

They had spent so much time apart already - whether in misunderstanding or halfway across Canada from one another at different schools or at different houses, the distance of less than a mile feeling impossibly vast in the days leading up to their wedding, when every inch between them felt intolerable. It was another, much less conquerable distance that had caused Anne to agree to marry him that very summer, their trip to Paris less than a week away now. 

The butterflies ( _ Gilbert! Married! Paris! _ It was all so new, and these thoughts never failed to thrill her when she thought about it) hit Anne’s stomach at the same time the smell hit her nose. 

Was that… toast? Porridge? Something warm and homey was wafting up the stairs. Anne slipped on her house shoes and robe, hurrying to tie it closed as she followed her nose into the kitchen. She found Gilbert there barefoot - wearing his slacks, undershirt, and suspenders - moving a bit frantically from the stovetop, where something bubbled sluggishly, to the potbelly stove, where he bent to remove the toasting fork, to the tabletop, where a pitcher of juice was laid alongside two crocks - one butter, one jam, two table settings, and a small bowl of soft-boiled eggs, still in their shells and steaming gently. The newspaper they had walked to town to fetch yesterday, stretching their legs and sunning their faces after far too much time spent indoors and -  _ ahem  _ \- enjoying one another’s company, lay folded beneath the lip of one of the plates. 

Anne stood quietly in the doorway, taking it in - the domestic scene before her pouring into her soul and filling her to overflowing with blissful happiness. Gilbert handled the toast, burning his fingers slightly as he transferred it from fork to platter, sucking air in through his teeth and pressing his pointer finger into his mouth as a reflex to soothe the stinging burn.

Anne’s presence was revealed then - her quiet chuff of laughter causing Gilbert to look up quickly, almost guiltily, his cheeks hollow as he sucked on his fingertip. He removed the offended digit from his mouth with a soft  _ pop _ and smiled ruefully at her. 

“Good morning, Wife,” he grinned, taking her in head-to-toe, from her mussed hair to the crookedly-tied robe to her bare ankles and back again. By the time his eyes met hers once more, his grin had turned wolfish. 

“Hungry?” 

_____

Anne rolled over with a groan, and somewhere in the back of her mind she noted the strong, soothing hands rubbing circles into the small of her back. 

“I saw a lot of men struggle with being seasick in my first weeks working at sea, but I can definitively say that I have  _ never  _ seen anyone get seasick like  _ this _ , Anne. I just-- We can--  _ What can I do _ ?” Gilbert’s voice was quiet, tense. 

Anne groaned again, leaning further over the bucket that she was poised over, breathing deeply in her nose and then out again, her lips pursed, eyes shut tight. 

“ _ Make it. Stop. Rocking. _ ” She exhaled in waves, her voice guttural and strange. 

He chuckled humorlessly, removing his hands from her back to rifle through his bag again, determined to try again. 

“Bash really does swear by tucking a little piece of ginger between your gums and your cheek. Trinidadian Bush Medicine, I suppose. Please, just  _ try  _ it? I know you harbor ill-will toward-” 

“ _Gilbert Blythe_ , you don’t spend your _entire_ life being called ‘ _Ginger_ ’ like it’s a filthy word, then grow up fond of the root! You’re lucky I’ll eat carr--” her voice cut off with a retch, and then she was sick into the bucket, and Gilbert’s hands were back on her, soothing and warm. 

When she was finished, he poured her a small glass of water, watching as she took a tiny sip, her face tinged green, then he turned and snapped off a piece of ginger roughly, rubbing the thin skin off between his fingers and handing it to her. 

“Sorry, Carrots. Desperate times and all that.” He held it out to her determinedly, his tone brokering no argument. 

She groaned once more, this time rolling her eyes at him, but she reached out with shaking, white hands and took the tiny, offensive morsel. Then she tucked it into her mouth and grimaced at him. He pulled her onto his chest then, smoothing her hair off of her damp forehead and chuckling quietly. 

“ _ Ginger,  _ huh?” he murmured to himself, then chuckled once, shaking his head. “Well, I guess our first meeting really  _ could  _ have been worse...” 

_____

Anne woke disoriented once more. Then, after a moment of sleepy recollection, she admitted to herself that it was getting easier; taking less time for her to remember where she was and what she was doing there.

_ Paris _ .  _ Right _ . 

This morning, however, something else had her feeling out of place, and then it clicked home: the fight. 

They had been in Paris for six days now, having spent most of their time getting settled and adjusting to life in a new place. Unpacking, wandering the streets aimlessly, shopping, holding hands, smiling. Oh, her cheeks had hurt from smiling at the end of each day since they had arrived. 

  
Anne  _ loved _ Paris. Loved the markets held outside in the streets where she could buy anything from fish to flowers to fine, handmade soaps. She loved the sound of the language, though definitely not when  _ she _ was the speaker, and fully admitting that she only understood about every fifth word. She loved the lifestyle of the Parisians around her - busy yet unhurried, focused yet indulgent, confident and comfortable. The focus on the pleasures of life was stark, definitely something Anne had never been taught to consider, but she found that it suited her and her new husband perfectly. 

_ Her husband.  _ That’s when last night fully came back to Anne, and she rolled over instinctively, reaching out for him, only to find the bed next to her cold, empty. 

They had fought; had really and truly argued - red faces and gritted teeth and all - but Anne could not quite remember what had started the argument. They both had been tired, just back from a late dinner at the brasserie down the road from their apartment. They were talking about politics… then what? Something about the new PM in Canada, and… 

Oh goodness - had she really snapped at him about hanging his dirty shirt and trousers on the end of the bed instead of in the hamper? Yes, she had, and then he had retorted something about the ring her mug was leaving on the nightstand and… 

Anne covered her face with both hands, then rolled over to press herself into her pillow. She remembered now - remembered it all except for one thing. She could not seem to recall why she had been so  _ angry _ , so irritated and unfair and low. She had carried one bad feeling off into a night of stony silence with backs turned toward one another, the space between them a cold no-man’s-land, and for what? Apparently just so she could feel shame and heartache upon waking. 

If Anne knew one thing about herself, though, it was that she could be stubborn in more ways than one. Last night, she had been stubbornly determined to pick a fight with Gilbert, but she was just as determined now to never let this happen again. She was fine with arguing -  _ liked to _ argue with Gilbert, even, when it was a wit-matching, sparring sort of affair - but not like this. 

She rolled onto her back and shoved herself to a sitting position, ready to find Gilbert and apologize, when a knock came at the door. Her head snapped up at the sound, and she found him standing there in the open doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His face was tilted downward, and he looked up at her through his eyelashes as he leaned against the doorframe. 

“I put my dirty socks on the kitchen counter and didn’t take out the trash when I went down to get the paper this morning, just in case you were ready for another round when you woke up.” His voice was quiet, but his eyes sparkled, conveying a shy playfulness beneath his chagrined demeanor. 

“Gil, I’m  _ so  _ sorry. I was such a terror and I didn’t mean to--” She was cut off as he reached the bed in two quick strides, continuing straight for her and causing her to lie back as his body came to rest on top of hers. He pressed her into the mattress, kissing her hard for a long moment, then he pulled back to softly smile down at her. 

“I’m sorry too. I was sorry as soon as I rolled over last night, but was too tired and crabby and proud to say it. Let’s never fight again, okay?” His lips were quirked in a playful smile, but his eyes burned with feeling. 

Anne laughed, her eyes crinkling as she looked into his, her heart feeling light at having put the ugliness of the last night behind them. 

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not possible. You see, I enjoy sparring with you every so often. It’s just so cute the way your forehead wrinkles up and your eyes get all scrunched and narrow.” She reached up, pushing a curl off of his forehead, then reached her hand back to run her fingers through his hair. “But I do think that there are better things we can do with our evenings here in our bed…”

Her teasing was cut off with another kiss, this one longer, deeper, as he lowered his body onto hers. 

_____

_ Mmmm…  _ please _ , Gil… I need you to... _

Anne arched her back, stretching restlessly as she began to wake. Consciousness came slowly, and her mind struggled to fit the puzzle pieces together. 

First, there was the sensation of heat - that now-familiar, aching fire roaring low in her belly, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against her chest. Anne squeezed her eyes shut tighter, wondering if she was still stuck in the strange, heated dream she had been having. 

She couldn’t remember all of it now - only the close press of her body against his, the whisper of his shallow breaths against her face, her quiet pleas -  _ don’t stop, please don’t stop.  _

Awareness of a large, warm hand being splayed across her stomach, fingers spread wide, pulling her into the wide, firm expanse of the broad chest at her back as another hand - this one splayed across her breast and squeezing lightly - reached her gradually.

Anne’s eyes flew open to find her familiar bedroom of their Paris apartment still dark, the faint light of the approaching dawn illuminating the pale curtains of the window that looked out onto Rue Nationale. The hand at her breasts continued to move and caress, kneading lightly at her soft flesh, and the hard press of his body at her back moving as he pressed his hips against hers. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” it came out both as a stunned realization that she was, indeed, awake as well as an exhaled expression of pleasure as the pieces fit together and she realized what had woken her. 

“ _ Anne, _ ” his voice was low and urgent, and she thought to herself that she very well still could be dreaming, except that her dreams never felt this desperately  _ real _ .

“You were tossing and turning in your sleep, and then--” he rutted his hips against her backside again. “Then you started talking. You… you were _ begging, whimpering _ my name, and I--.” With each emphasized word he pressed his hard sex into the soft curve of her backside. 

A noise escaped Anne’s lips without her permission - an exhaled moan in the back of her throat - as he continued, the hand on her stomach moving lower, reaching beneath the hem of her nightgown to grip at the bare skin of her upper thigh. 

“It sounded like you needed me, Dryad.” His lips were at her ear, breathy and low. The feeling of his breath on her skin made her prickle deliciously. “Do you? Need me?” 

Anne rolled over, suddenly desperate to press herself into him, to press her lips and her chest and her hips against him to feel him under her fingertips --  _ now _ . Desperate to pick up where her dream had left off. 

_____

A soft kiss pressed to the nape of her neck woke her as a gentle hand moved to push her chemise up under her breasts as he caressed the firm, round expanse of her pregnant stomach. Still groggy from sleep, Anne wordlessly snuggled closer to Gilbert in bed, pressing her forehead into his chest. 

“Charlie Sloane just called - my presence is humbly requested at the birth of his son this morning,” Gilbert’s voice was quiet, but not sleep-worn. Anne peeled open one eye to note the fresh shirt he was wearing, then groaned and closed both eyes tightly once more. 

“Ugh, Charlie Sloane  _ would _ assume that he could only produce  _ sons _ ,” she complained into his shirt’s pearlescent buttons. 

She felt, rather than heard, him chuckle, and she smiled to herself, loving his closeness - loving that making him laugh still felt so good, even after four years of marriage. The hands on her bare belly wound around to the small of her back, and she felt him pull their bodies close together. 

They lay in silence for a brief moment, before he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head and sighed wistfully. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve been jealous of Charlie Sloane…” 

She could hear the smile in his voice, and she teased back effortlessly. “Oh really? So, are you feeling upset that Josie is having  _ his  _ baby instead of yours? I would have thought that you’d be long over your feelings for her by now…” 

Gilbert’s hand reached lower to pinch her bottom just hard enough to make her yelp, and she pushed against his chest to level a glare up at his laughing face. 

“Gilbert Blythe, you are  _ so  _ lucky that I don’t have a slate handy at the moment - not that anyone has ever gotten through your thick skull by that means…” His quiet laughter shook the bed as Anne rolled her eyes, snuggling back into his chest for a deceptive moment, then reaching out and pinching his chest through his shirt. 

Gilbert’s yelp was louder, and accompanied by a jerk away from her. He recovered quickly, though, grabbing Anne’s wrists in his and pinning them on the bed above her on either side of her head as he rolled her onto her back. He shifted his weight to straddle her thighs pinning her to the bed beneath him. His eyes were bright as he looked down at her, both of them smiling and faintly flushed. 

“Alright then, if it isn’t Josie you’re after, then why  _ are _ you jealous of Charlie Sloane, Doctor Blythe?” Her tone challenged him while her eyes danced. 

Gilbert didn’t respond right away - instead he drank in every bit of her expression like a desert traveler who finally had reached an oasis. His dark eyes roamed from her bright blue irises to her parted, pink lips, down her neck and over her crooked chemise straps, which barely contained her swollen bosom at the moment, and down over her taut, round stomach. His lingering gaze made Anne’s cheeks darken, and she squirmed lightly against his grip, suddenly conscious of her state of dress as she imagined how ridiculous she must look. 

He didn’t release her right away, instead leaning down slowly to kiss her lips, then her cheek, then down her jawline and onto her neck. His hands released her wrists only to steady himself as he moved lower over her, kissing his way south until his lips landed on her pregnant belly, trailing his nose over her and pressing soft, sweet kisses all of the way down to her hips. 

He sat back on his heels, replacing his lips with his large, warm hands as he cradled and caressed their unborn child. 

“I’m jealous because he gets to meet his child today, and I  _ cannot wait _ to meet ours, my Anne with an E.” Gilbert’s playful demeanor had vanished, and the love and longing and excitement blazing from his eyes brought tears into Anne’s. 

“Really?” she asked quietly after a moment. His eyebrows drew down in confusion, and she went on, clarifying. “I’m so,  _ so _ excited to meet this little one, too, of course. But…” her throat bobbed as she gulped quietly, trying to swallow down the next words, wishing she was more brave. 

“But I guess I’m also…  _ afraid _ .” Her voice had nearly lost all volume by the last word. 

“What if…” she couldn’t finish that sentence, not even had she attempted a thousand throat-clearing swallows. Instead of voicing the unspeakable, she looked helplessly up into the town doctor’s eyes - eyes that had already seen too many miracles and heartbreaks to count. 

Gilbert’s sober gaze reflected her fears - their haunted appearance spoke of things he only let himself think about in the dead of night as he held his perfect, incredible wife’s sleeping form in his arms - and his own throat convulsed thickly, swallowing down the terror that seized him at the conclusion of that thought. 

“ _ Anne _ ,” his voice broke over the word, then he swallowed once more and tried again. “Anne, it’s going to be alright.” 

It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it, felt it in the bed with them like a sinister hand at their throats, but then Gilbert lay down on his side, pulling Anne in front of him and cradling her against him, a soothing hand draped across her waist and tracing soft circles into her skin. 

“Everything will be alright, and I’ll be right here with you…” he whispered and soothed, holding her until it was five minutes past the time he needed to leave. 

Anne took a deep breath and forced a serene smile onto her lips, kissing him sweetly before he left to deliver a bouncing baby boy to Charlie and Josie Sloane well before tea time. 

_____

Two months later Anne woke with eyes that were too dry, blinking against the harsh sun shining through the drawn curtains of her bedroom window. It was probably well-past breakfast time, but the hollow feeling in Anne’s stomach did not ask for food. Her mouth felt dessicated, like her eyes and her stomach and her veins and her heart, and she wanted nothing more than to roll over and let the merciful embrace of unconsciousness save her from the violence of the pain in her chest. She willed herself not to think or feel, and rolled over, expecting the bed to be empty next to her.

Her arm brushed against a warm, solid limb, and she peeked a bleary eye open to see that Gilbert was sitting up in bed next to her. She closed her eye again quickly, hoping that he hadn’t noticed her wake. He didn’t say anything - had hardly said anything to her in the last thirty-six hours, really - and she felt the ache inside of her grow as she considered the brief, hollow victory of remaining alone in her misery. 

She tried to push the emptiness away, but more rose up to greet it. She was no longer falling into the nothingness - she  _ was _ nothing, a depthless void, which, if she had been able to think objectively, might have seemed better than the mess of tears, which at first were silent - falling in a constant stream - then, hours later, became loud, desperate, and anguished - crashing over her in torrents and bringing along rough, aching, hiccoughing breaths. 

Yes, she prefered this quiet, violent nothingness - especially as it came just in time for all of her friends and family to finally leave her to embrace the absence alone. No Marilla, eyes rimmed in red, pleading with her to eat or drink; no Diana, cheeks dimpled in dismay and lips quivering, running a soothing hand along her brow, surely silently thanking God for her own healthy babe safe at home; no Matthew, silent and hunched, keeping vigil in the corner of her small bedroom; no Bash, cheeks wet, kneeling at her bedside, squeezing her hand wordlessly again and again. 

Even Gilbert had left her, though he was apparently taking today off again, surely to watch over her and play doctor, despite both of them knowing she hadn’t any need for him. It was their child - their Joyce -- _Joy_ , Anne tried to think of the hopeful nickname without feeling a stab of bitterness; the emptiness helped her to very nearly accomplish it \-- who needed him, and he hadn’t been able to help her. No one could. 

A sudden sound, like that of a wounded, frightened animal, caused Anne to jolt, her eyes flying open, seeking the source of the inhuman noise. All she saw was Gilbert, his head bent toward his bent knees, his face contorted and shoulders shaking. In his hands she saw a small, knit dress - crafted by the skilled hands of Rachel Lynde and gifted to Anne in a large layette for their new arrival. The cloth looked small, helpless in his too-large hands, and he gripped it tightly, as though he would shred it into pieces; as though it could save him from drowning in his grief. 

The realization that the noise had come from her husband woke Anne suddenly, a new wave of grief and anger and heartache rampaging into her heart with the force of an angry bull, driving out the emptiness. She leaned up weakly on her elbow, her arm reaching out to settle on his leg. It was the only olive branch she could bring herself to muster - all the comfort she had left to give. 

“Gil--” her throat was hoarse, without volume. Lifeless. 

“I’m so sorry, Anne,” his voice hitched and cracked over the words, and he paused to try to slow his breathing. “I couldn’t save her. There was nothing I could-- and she was--” 

Here he broke off, unable to go on. Silent sobs shook his whole body and he buried his face in the tiny, frilly dress that should have been taken away with the rest of the baby’s delicate things with Marilla, but somehow had remained behind. 

Anne’s eyes did not tear - quite the opposite: they felt so dry that they might crack and break, like her heart in her chest. Gilbert had stood stoically by that morning, his strong arm around her heaving shoulders, as they had buried their daughter in an apple blossom-lined casket, his eyes dry, his jaw closed tight, nodding at well-wishers as they left while Anne retreated into the house without a backward glance. 

Now he sat beside her, breaking apart, taking blame, and Anne felt her heart thump in her chest clumsily, like a colt trying out its legs for the first time. 

She knew, of course. Knew the pain he was feeling, knew that he had lost loved-ones to senseless illness, knew how powerless he had felt as they had slipped through his fingers. It was what had driven him to study medicine - to graduate at the top of his class from the most renowned medical institution in Europe - and what had driven him back home to Prince Edward Island to become a country doctor, bringing his hard-won knowledge to the island that he loved: to keep other families from suffering the way his had. 

And now… 

Anne pushed herself forward on her forearm, inching closer to him. When she was near enough, she laid her head in his lap and then wrapped her arms around his middle, holding him as tightly as her waning strength would allow. Tears came then, hot and urgent, and they cried together for all of the hope turned bitter, the happiness turned to anguish. They mourned for their little girl and for each other as the sun rose higher into the sky, ushering in a new day that, for the first time in their young lives, had brought with it nothing but heartache. 

_____

The next spring, nearly a year after that first, heartbroken morning together, Anne woke early and padded, barefoot, down the stairs and into the small kitchen of their home. Hester Grey’s old seaside cottage was now as much hers and Gilbert’s as it had ever been Hester’s, and Anne relished the feeling of the worn floorboards beneath her feet, the little bits of crushed seashells that lined the counter’s edge, the touches lovingly added by the woman who had lived here so long ago, embellished by its new, loving tenants. Anne imagined Hester to be a kindred spirit, a friendly presence in this house that had so much history. 

Anne busied herself with starting a fire in the kitchen stove, filling the kettle while she waited for the kindling to ignite, and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. The child growing inside of her gave a mighty stretch, and Anne pictured her tiny babe pushing out its fists and yawning hugely as it made itself comfortable once more as she had done moments earlier, before heaving herself out of bed. 

She couldn’t bring herself to imagine this baby as a boy or a girl yet - hadn’t let herself picture anything past the present day, despite the temptation to nest and daydream and gush about her future happiness. She had learned to be wary of the future since she had lost her Joy, and, though she felt as fierce a love for the child growing within her as she had when expecting her first child, she felt too raw to open herself up to plans for future happiness.

Her little one kicked inside of her, nudging Anne’s attention away from the macabre turn of her thoughts, bringing her back into the moment. Anne realized suddenly that tears were streaming down her cheeks as she sat there, cradling her swollen stomach. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, made blurry by the tears, and suddenly Gilbert was on his knees in front of her, hands reaching out to cover hers, his eyes searching her face. 

“Anne, are you--” his voice was anxious. 

“No, no. I’m alright. We are alright. I was just… thinking…” Anne's voice sounded strange in her ears. She was putting on a brave face, something they had often attempted to do for one another with varying degrees of success over the past year. The pain had ebbed somewhat, but Anne knew that she would never stop missing their firstborn child.

Gilbert’s face looked relieved for a moment, and then he took her hands in his, turning her palms up to kiss them one at a time. He took her stomach into his hands, placing a soft kiss at its crest. When he looked up at her once more, his eyes were shining with tears, too. 

“It’s going to be okay, Dryad. I know you’re afraid - I am, too. But, Anne - you’re the most wonderful person I have ever known. If anyone deserves to be a mother, it’s you. This child is going to live a long, happy life, and they will grow up knowing that they have a loving big sister watching over them.” 

Anne closed her eyes and thought of the words that her friend, Muriel, had once shared which had become a mantra of sorts to her in the past difficult year:  _ You can’t know joy unless you’ve known sorrow. Those of us who can soar to the highest heights can plunge to the deepest depths. _

Anne knew now that life is a delicate balance, and she spent so much of the past year hurting - bitter, jealous, angry, devastated - but she also spent time quietly reflecting, and vowing that she would come out of this stronger someday. ‘ _ You can’t know  _ Joy _ without knowing sorrow _ ’ Anne repeated in her head, changing the meaning of her old teacher’s advice slightly. She  _ would  _ know Joy someday, and she vowed to be the kind of woman - the kind of  _ mother _ \- that would make her daughter proud. 

She smiled down at Gilbert then, lifting both hands to thread her fingers through his hair, dragging her nails lightly back and down across his scalp. 

“We are going to be such wonderful parents, Gil. And someday this house will be  _ full _ of loud, happy, curly-haired, dark-eyed children. And I can’t wait.” She smiled softly, and he smiled back. Anne loved him more today than she could ever have imagined as a girl of sixteen. 

He smiled back at her, his grin turning impish after a moment. Then he rose to his feet, pulling her with him, and sat himself in her chair, positioning her comfortably on his lap. She nestled her face into his neck as he held her there, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her as he spoke, his tone teasing.

“If you imagine, even for a moment, that I don’t pray every day that every one of those children you mentioned will have eyes as blue as the summer sky and hair as red as carrots, then you don’t know me at all.” 

_____

One bright, cold morning in the late winter, Anne woke languorously, rolling over in bed to find Gilbert sitting up with his back up against the headboard, rocking a sleeping Walter in his arms slowly, singing to him just above a whisper. 

“That if I didn’t kiss the girl, my lips would grow all moldy…” 

Anne sat up slowly, grinning at the familiar tune. 

“Morning, Sailors,” she whispered, reaching out to stroke the soft thatch of dark hair at the crown of the sleeping child’s head.

Gilbert leaned over, their sweet, six-week old baby boy still fast asleep in his arms, to kiss Anne, his lips lingering much longer than she anticipated. Their kiss deepened as Anne leaned further forward, reaching down to move her body closer to his. 

It had felt like ages since she had slept for more than an hour or two at a time, but her body couldn’t help responding enthusiastically to the attentions of her husband. She pulled back to smile at him, their faces inches apart, her hand resting against his cheek, before it occurred to her that she had gone to bed alone again last night. Her thumb reached up slowly to brush against the dark circles under his eyes, her brow furrowing in concern. 

“When did you make it home last night?” she whispered. 

Gilbert smiled ruefully at her, answering quietly, “About an hour ago. As I came in, I heard this young man starting to rustle, so I thought I’d keep him company so you could get some extra rest.” 

Anne’s tight-lipped smile turned to a grimace as she studied his face, then wrinkled her nose in concern. Her voice lowered further still, some emotion seeping into it as she asked, “Mr. Andrews didn’t...”

Gilbert shook his head once, his eyes closing briefly, before opening them again to search her face. Anne inhaled sharply, marvelling at the sharp pain of someone going before their time, even if it was someone she had never particularly liked. 

_ Poor Jane and Prissy… _ she imagined how painful it would be to lose your father. She thought of Matthew, and thanked God that he had leased the farm to Jerry years ago, that he had taken up whittling and being the world’s most attentive grandfather in the last couple of years instead of punishing his body with farm chores every day. 

Her thoughts were not generous enough to include Billy in her sympathy for the Andrews family, but as no one had heard from him in Avonlea in the last five years, she didn’t linger on the unpleasant feelings his name caused for long. Instead her thoughts turned toward the crocks of plum preserves she and Marilla had put up last week, and she made plans to bake bread and bring over a basket to Mrs. Andrews that afternoon. 

Gilbert was watching her still, and, almost as though he could hear her thoughts as he watched the emotions play over her face, he smiled softly again, leaning in to capture her lips with his once more. 

They broke apart when her hands hand wound themselves into his hair, both of their breathing uneven. Gilbert moved his legs off of the bed, turning as though he would go while keeping his torso still, his face close to hers, eyes bright. 

“I’m sure he will sleep for a little while yet - let me just take him to his--” 

“ _ MAMA MAMA MAMAAAAA! _ ”

They both froze for a brief moment, hoping against hope that Jem would quiet down again in his room across the hall, though they had no reason to believe their energetic, red-headed toddler capable of such behavior, however much his parents may desire a quiet moment together. 

Anne flashed a smile, grabbing the back of Gilbert’s head to pull him in for one last, quick kiss before gently taking the baby from him and heading for the door. 

“Get some rest, Doctor Blythe. I want you in top shape and ready to finish this  _ discussion  _ by naptime,” she turned to wink at him as she closed the door behind her. 

_____

Two years later, Anne woke with a start, the air in her lungs being expelled in an  _ oomph _ as Jem leapt onto her chest. Before she could properly take in another breath, her eyes had flown open to view her surroundings: four-year-old Jem straddling her rib cage, two-year-old Walter at the edge of the bed, scrambling to find purchase enough to mount its side by hanging onto the duvet cover with small, pudgy fists, Gilbert rolling over to inspect the commotion through sleepy, half-closed eyes. 

“Mama! Me and Walter are hungry! Do you want a kiss to help wake you up?!” Jem’s eyes were bright, his red hair standing up at all angles. Walter had scaled up the side of the bed just enough to realize that he was stuck - too high to find the ground with his reaching toes, too low to throw his leg over the top of the bed. His face began to contort with fear for the briefest moment before Anne was reaching for him, pulling him up to her side. 

As the rescue occurred, Jem had looked over to find his father awake, and left his perch on Anne to take two leaping bounds before landing squarely on Gilbert’s chest. Anne heard the  _ whoosh _ as Gilbert’s breath left him, and she smiled to herself as Walter grasped her in a fierce hug, snuggling his face into her neck. 

“Good morning, boys,” Anne whispered. “Remember now, we must be quiet. You mustn’t wake your--” 

Just then one of the twins in the bassinet in the corner of the room -- surely it was little Anne;  _ Nan _ , as Walter had taken to calling her -- began to fuss. Nan’s dark, curling hair and hazel eyes had stolen Anne’s heart instantly -- while Diana - Di, the boys called her - with her bright red hair and deep blue eyes was instantly endeared to Gilbert -- though Nan was easily the lighter sleeper of the pair. 

Anne laughed quietly to herself, moving to get up from the bed before Gilbert’s hand reached out to grasp her arm. She turned back toward him, Walter still cuddled against her chest, a question in her eyes. Gilbert smiled back sleepily, his arms reaching up now to position Jem at his back - his strong little arms moving to secure themselves around Gilbert’s neck. 

“You stay put - I’ll go,” Gilbert said quietly, his voice gruff with sleep. Then he spoke to Jem over his shoulder as they headed toward Nan’s soft cries. “What’s for breakfast today, young master Jem?” 

“Susan promised me pancakes!” Jem all but shouted into his father’s ear, causing Gilbert to wince. 

Anne grinned at them both, then buried her face in Walter’s cool, soft hair, inhaling deeply the scent of her sweet, loving little boy, closing her eyes against the dawn and burrowing them both back into the downy warmth of her bed. 

_____

The month after their sixth child, Shirley - a boy with brown hair and eyes - was born seemed a blur of images and aches to Anne: her arms weak and empty at her sides; her child spirited away at each cry; Susan’s brief visits to her room as the sun was dawning, quietly holding Anne’s stirring babe close to his mother briefly before whisking him from the room once more. Anne had wanted to reach out, to hold and caress and care-for her tiny, sweet boy, but her body failed her. 

The first morning that she woke and understood more than the vague notion that she was home - that she was sick, that she  _ hurt  _ and  _ ached  _ \- dawned bright and cold. Gilbert was laying in bed next to her, seeming to have fallen asleep while sitting up in bed, a book pressed open on his chest. 

Anne reached a thin, ghostly arm out to take the book so he could recline more comfortably, but when the pressure of the volume left his chest, Gilbert’s eyes snapped open. He looked more than tired - he looked rough, almost wild, his cheekbones protruding, eyes wan - as he searched her face, reaching out to touch her forehead with the back of his hand. 

“How are you?” His voice was as rough as his visage. “How are you feeling, Darling?” 

Anne opened her mouth to speak, her lips dry, knowing that she hadn’t used her voice in too long. “How is Shirley?” 

Gilbert nodded reassuringly, his eyes still troubled. “He’s fine, Anne. He may as well be Susan’s own child, the way they have taken to each other. She hasn’t put him down since you... not for days and days. He’s  _ well _ , Anne.” 

She nodded her head, tears pooling in her eyes. She had thought that she was thankful for Susan, their long-time live-in housekeeper, before, but that feeling paled in comparison to the gratitude she now felt. She had too many questions - about the baby and herself, about what had happened to her, to him, to the other children. Heavens -- had anyone thought to inform the Merediths that she could not man her booth at the charity bazaar? For that matter,  _ what day was it?! _

Before she could ask anything, though, Gilbert was on his feet and out the door. Anne’s brow furrowed, but he was back before her sluggish mind could think of trying to sit up or call out to Susan for assistance. He reentered the room carrying a tray, which he set at her bedside table, then he bent and lifted her easily into an upright position against the headboard and a stack of pillows. 

He sat on the bed next to her, smiling softly, eyes still tense and tired as he reached for the bowl of broth on the tray. He held it in one hand as he reached the spoon toward her with the other. She drank carefully, struggling to keep up with the thoughts swirling in her mind. After a few spoonfuls, she located the most important question in her mind at the moment, and she held a hand up to him. 

“Gil, are you alright?” The question came out wrong, her voice still too rough. She wanted to know what was haunting him - what could have made his face so thin, his eyes so afraid. What wasn’t he telling her? 

He stared back at her for a long moment, then put the bowl back down on the tray and reached up as if to place his hands on top of his head. Instead, though, he carded his fingers through his hair, then fisted his hands against his scalp, yanking his hair roughly. He looked tortured, like he might yell or cry at any moment, and Anne’s eyes filled with tears once more. She reached a shaking hand and placed it on the first part of him she could reach - flat against his chest, over his heart. 

“Gilbert, it’s alright. I’m here. Tell me.” Her broken pleading caused her tears to spill over.

The breath he had been slowly exhaling broke, and his expression followed, then his body. He bent forward, burying his face in her lap, shoulders shaking, as he sobbed into the bedclothes. His arms reached out as he cried, wrapping around her waist and pulling her toward him. She wound up bent over him, her hands running soothingly up and down his back, as he cried and mumbled into her lap. Anne shushed him quietly, tears silently flowing, speaking whatever words of comfort came into her mind. 

After a while, his breaths began to even out, his shoulders no longer heaving as he sat up at last, his face still crumpled in pain. His lips quivered briefly before he pressed them together, then he spoke, his voice breaking and hitching over the words, “I almost lost you.” 

Anne was still trying to catch up, but these words brought her swirling thoughts to an abrupt halt. She had no idea what to do, what to say. His raw, naked pain knocked the breath out of her, but she couldn’t leave him comfortless for long. She reached out again, this time to take his cheek in her small, too-pale hand. 

“I’m here.” She whispered the words, cradling his head back onto her lap, soothing and crooning the same two words over and over again until his breathing was slow and measured, his arms wrapped tightly around her even in sleep. 

_____

The mornings on their visit to Paris - their first since living there for three years as newlyweds - all seem a blur of images and sensations in her memory, too. 

They had left their sweet one-year old, Shirley, with Susan, and had sent the rest of the children to spend a joy-and-sunshine-filled summer with Grandma Marilla and Grandpa Matthew in Avonlea, which meant that Anne and Gilbert could spend their own beautiful, golden-hued summer in the City of Love. 

In Anne’s mind the memory of those mornings spent in Paris would forever-after play as a perfect, unbroken reel of sweet, affectionate ‘Good morning’s’; leisurely breakfasts of coffee and pastries on the balcony in bathrobes while newspaper articles and letters from home were read aloud; and deep, slow kisses that always lead them back to bed. There was no schedule to adhere to; no listening for the children or the telephone; no worry that someone was hungry or injured; no one crying out for the aid of either mother or doctor. 

Though Anne  _ did  _ wind up crying out the good doctor’s name before each morning was through…

_____

On her third morning home, after the awful voyage back from Paris -- having never found a suitable cure for her terrible seasickness - much to her chagrin, ginger seemed to be the only thing that helped -- she woke having to face the fact that the nausea that had accompanied her waking hour each morning was  _ not _ , in fact, some strange hold-over from the ship. 

“Gilbert Blythe, if you have impregnated me once again, I’ll--” She broke off her angry muttering as her face disappeared back into the bowl she was holding on her lap. 

He rubbed broad, soothing circles into her back, but she could feel his quiet laughter next to her as she wretched, and if she had any strength in her shaking limbs, she would have swatted at him. 

When she was finished, she sat back, using the back of her hand to wipe perspiration from her brow, taking a deep, cleansing breath. When she turned to face Gilbert, seated next to her on the floor, their backs against their bed, he grinned at her, sweeping forward quickly to peck a kiss onto her flushed cheek. 

“You’re  _ glowing _ ,” He reverenced, his eyes dancing as he grinned over at her. 

Anne rolled her eyes, her head falling forward into her hands. 

“That’s the  _ last  _ time I’m letting you take me to Paris,” she grumbled against her palms. “Stupid, romantic, charming,  _ seductive  _ man…” she trailed off, making sure he heard every grumbled word. 

He laughed loudly, throwing both of his arms around her and peppering her neck with kisses until she was giggling and wriggling against him. 

_____

The morning, seventeen short years of happy, busy days later, was seared on her memory with a white-hot branding iron of pain and anger and devastating grief. Anne did not find herself empty, though, as she had with the loss of her first child, only hours old - forever perfect and precious. 

No, instead she found her body being tortured with hot coals as each scorching memory dragged itself across her skin slowly, every nerve ending alive and crying out in constant agony.

His soft, pudgy hands, reaching up to her. His pink, sticky cheeks, pressing into her clean skirts; against her smooth cheek. His quiet, steady voice, reading her poetry. His serious, contemplative questions, searching her face for the truth. His resolute, grey eyes, boring into hers one last time before he boarded the train in his crisp army uniform. 

_ We are sorry to inform you that your son, Walter Cuthbert Blythe, was killed in the line of duty on the morning of September 19, 1916 on the front in northern France. _

Anne had spent the entire night on the rack, Gilbert broken and harrowed beside her. They held each other as they cried. They shared memories - whispered, bitter feelings of anger and loss; soft, agonized stories of their kind, quiet child - and prayers for Jem, who was still fighting somewhere in Europe. Never feeling tired. Never relaxing into the bed around them. 

Together holding a quiet, tortured vigil all night long and into the dawn of a new day as they mourned their kind, sweet, too-good-for-this-world son. 

_____

The morning of Rilla and Kenneth’s wedding dawned bright and clear. Anne rose just before the sun, her mind instantly reeling off a list of all of the things she needed to do in time for the ceremony, which was scheduled for eleven o’clock that morning. 

Their longtime friends, Leslie and Owen, were staying in the spare room down the hall, and Anne had promised to wake them so they could help with the preparations. She had just begun to mentally calculate the number of Marilla’s famous plum puffs (a recipe Anne had been making with pride since her adoptive mother’s passing eight years earlier) that they would need for the reception (something she and Susan - who was visiting from her new home in Charlottetown - had already calculated at least three times). 

Anne had just thrown the covers off of herself, determined to greet the day - and check once more on the flower arrangements spread across her sitting room - when a warm, familiar hand shot across her stomach, grasping across her waist and reeling her backward toward his firm chest. 

“Good morning, Dryad,” he rumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow that was covering part of his mouth as he lay back, pulling his wife into his body and caging her against him with his strong arms. 

Anne let her eyes close for a moment, relaxing into his embrace. “Good morning, Doctor Blythe.” Her lips spread into a smile as she spoke, her eyes still closed in the pre-dawn quiet. 

She felt Gilbert shift behind her as he leaned up on one elbow, his mouth moving to the side of her neck where he placed a soft, lingering kiss. Then he moved his lips closer to her ear and whispered, “Do you know what today is?”

Goosebumps erupted across her neck, and Anne’s smile grew as she responded, “Of course. It’s our daughter’s wedding day.” 

“Yes,” he crooned against the shell of her ear. “But do you know what that  _ means _ ?”

Anne squirmed as he tickled her skin, then rolled around within the cage of his arms to face him - their noses touching and eyes gazing from too-close. “It means that our baby girl is getting married? Are you trying to make  _ me  _ feel old, Doctor Blythe? Because, I must say, I cannot see that ending well for you.” 

Her hand reached up to softly tug at his salt-and-pepper hair, still curly though rumpled from sleep. She moved to graze her fingertips lightly across the fine lines stemming from the corners of his eyes - the ones he had earned from years of laughter and merriment. Then Anne drew her fingers over to the few small lines etched between his brows - these ones earned from countless worried furrowings and late-night calls to the bedsides of the sick and injured. 

“You are  _ two whole _ years older than me, after all,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss the lines on his brow, then those in the creases of his eyes, and then a soft, feather-light kiss against his lips. 

She felt Gilbert rumble a low laugh, his arms squeezing tight around her, as he shook his head, their noses brushing. 

“No, my Anne. It  _ means _ ,” he paused as he leaned to press a kiss against her jaw. “That after this weekend, it will just be  _ you _ ” here a kiss to her chin “ _ and”  _ a nip at the pulse point on her neck “ _ me _ .”

Anne was about to open her mouth with some sort of witty repartee when Gilbert suddenly rolled so that he was on top of her. He rested the weight of his torso on his forearms, which he had moved to either side of her head; his lower half pressed firmly against hers, the sheets tangled around them. A squeal and quiet giggle escaped Anne before she knew what was happening as he buried his face in her neck, kissing and nipping down her throat and onto her chest. 

He paused to look up at her once he had reached the neckline of her chemise, his lips smiling, eyes dark. “Does the thought of our soon-to-be-empty nest make you nervous?”

Anne breathed out a soft, shaky laugh, her heart pounding a jagged rhythm in her chest. Gilbert rested his chin lightly against her breast bone, gazing up at her through half-lidded eyes as he awaited her answer, and Anne’s next breath caught in her chest. 

This feeling was familiar - the fire low in her stomach, slowly blazing outward, engulfing her in desire and sensation and need for the man hovering over her. She remembered it clearly from that very first morning, but she could never have known what to expect all those years ago - that she would still burn just as brightly for him now as she had so long ago. If she had known enough to wonder at what decades together would feel like, she might have questioned whether a feeling that powerful could last through so much happiness and heartbreak and mundane, day-to-day living. 

As she gazed into the most familiar sight in her world - into the warm brown eyes looking up at her like she was the only woman in his world; the only thing he couldn’t live without - she felt her heart expand up into her throat, her eyes filling with tears of wonder and joy. She shook her head quickly, trying to clear her face of the sudden flood of emotion that had overtaken her before she could alarm him. 

“Nervous?” She tried to laugh out the word, but it came out sounding more like a sob. She shook her head again, blinking away the tears clouding her vision so she could see him clearly and make sure he understood. 

He was moving toward her now, brows furrowed, and she smoothed a hand over his forehead and back into his hair, carding her fingers through it and tugging lightly once more as she smiled at him. 

“Gilbert Blythe, I have been trying to get you alone with me every day since I was sixteen years old,” she made her voice stern with much more success than she had with teasing, her smile softening the clipped tone of her words. “What makes you think that anything has changed?” 

A cheshire cat grin flashed across his face before he buried his head against her chest, continuing down her body. When he had reached her hips, kissing and biting softly at her skin as he went, he paused, looking up at her once more. 

“That’s it, Wife” he growled, still grinning hugely at her. “I’m taking you back to Paris where I can teach you some manners, among other things...” he finished darkly, his eyes sparking deviously.

Anne laughed and began to struggle as Gilbert’s fingers pressed into her hips, effectively keeping her from squirming away from him. 

“ _ Oooh, no _ ! I remember what happened last time I willingly went to Paris with you. No. Nope. Not going to happen.” They were both giggling now, wrestling and tickling and teasing each other. 

………...

An hour later, Anne was dressed and headed down the hall to wake her daughter and their guests. She felt butterflies in her stomach at the thought of the coming day - all that there was to do, and all of the emotions she was sure to feel as her family gathered from near and far to bless Rilla and Kenneth’s union. Before the stress and excitement could carry her too far beyond this moment, she stopped to take a deep breath, close her eyes, and revel in the feelings from moments before. 

…………   
  


“I’m so in love with you, my Anne with an E.” 

The words had been whispered into the back of her head, both of them still breathing heavily as they lay cuddled close together on top of the bare sheet - everything else, including their clothes, having been scattered onto the floor around their bed. 

“Thank you for being my W-I-F-E.” She could hear him smiling as he whispered, and she giggled again, pulling his arm tighter around her waist. 

Anne’s heart soared in her chest, feeling her love for him deepen once more, as she had countless times over their years together. He had always had that effect on her - had always given her this incredible, indescribable feeling. His love made her feel that she was deeply, unshakably at home in him while simultaneously feeling that she might float away on her happiness at the faintest provocation.  _ Rooted and winged _ . 

She sighed contentedly, closing her eyes against the sunlight that had begun to peek through their bedroom window, and wondered for the millionth time whether there had ever been anyone with as much love and belonging in their life as she had found in the two arms wrapped around her. 


End file.
